


The sun, the night, running water, death

by Still_and_Clear



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: A little angst, A little pining, Fluffy-ish, M/M, Pre-Slash, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 07:00:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8435980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_and_Clear/pseuds/Still_and_Clear
Summary: Jim and Oswald and no Hallowe'en party whatsoever.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short fic for the Gobblepot Hallowe'en fest. :)
> 
> This can be set at an unspecified point in season one. There is no discernable plot :)
> 
> Any comments gratefully received :)

The cold night air seemed to pry around the edges of the door with narrow fingers. Oswald frowned at it, and peevishly gestured to one of the bar staff to go close the front door more firmly.

Gotham’s merciless summer had turned into a squally, ill-tempered autumn, with cold, rainy days which its inhabitants were used to, but resented all the same. And now, finally, at the end of October, winter had arrived, with a bitterly cold turn of weather making the streets seem even harder than they were. For Oswald, thin enough to feel the cold to his bones, it was another good reason to this time of year – to scowl, and turn his collar against it.

The main reason to hate today, though, was the fact that it was Hallowe’en. 

Butch had pleaded with him for days to put some kind of fancy dress party on at the club. _You can keep it fancy! A masquerade! A theme!_ But Oswald’s expression had only grown more mulish, and the set of his shoulders more rigid.

Butch had given in, eventually. _Maybe it can be a gimmick. Start a tradition_ , he’d mulled, voice doubtful, reaching for some way to placate Oswald as well as – to be fair – find an angle to use it to the club’s advantage. Build some success.

Oswald didn’t care, as long as his edict was obeyed: No Hallowe’en party at his club. Ever.

When it arrived, the day was as dismal as it always was. The rain had been heavy since early morning, scouring the streets, and the clouds were so heavy and sullen that the whole day had been dark as waning afternoon.

The bar was virtually empty. Was empty – if you didn’t count the staff. Butch sat at the bar, leafing through a newspaper, doubtless feeling rather smug. Oswald – for his part – sat stubbornly at the best table in the house, facing the stage, but still with an easy view of the bar and door.

Not that anyone had been through the door all night.

After about an hour of glaring at the hapless act on stage, Oswald was contemplating a dignified retreat to his office, to sulk in splendid isolation, when a cold draught let him know what someone, at least, had made their way into the club. Clearly vindicating his bold decision.

He glanced over at Butch, who had pasted a welcoming smile on his face for the customer, only to see him drop his eyes to his newspaper again, dismissive.

Oswald realised why when a familiar figure came into view. Jim Gordon. Tall and broad and grim-faced, sober and serious from top to toe. And why that should make him feel out of breath was anyone’s guess, since Oswald himself had never quite managed to figure it out.

He approached Oswald’s table with some trepidation, which made Oswald want to roll his eyes, since it was Jim who had sought him out, yet again, chosen to come here – but he rose awkwardly from his chair to greet him anyway. _Manners maketh the man._

‘Jim! How good to see you, old friend.’

The corners of Jim’s mouth hitch haltingly in what Oswald supposes is an attempt at a polite smile. He would be insulted if he did not know – through assiduously gleaned gossip and careful watching – that Jim Gordon is grudging and taciturn with _everyone_ , from his pretty fiancée (former fiancée, his mind corrected him) to the important, dangerous men, both legitimate and illegitimate, whom it would benefit Jim to smile and flatter. 

‘Cobblepot.’

It’s not Oswald, but it’s not _Penguin_ either. He’ll take it – for now, at least.

‘A drink? Or are you on duty?’

He sees Jim’s chin lift a little, just a little, with pride: Oswald’s oblique flattery, that Jim was _far_ too upright to dream of drinking on duty, having hit its mark perfectly.

And the pleasant confirmation that Jim Gordon does indeed have a weak point that can be worked – that he is proud of his moral code, and amenable to flattery, is surely important, very valuable for the future, but right now it seems rather less important to Oswald than the fact that Jim looks suddenly brighter than he has in weeks, and that he - Oswald - is responsible for that lightness on his face.

‘I’m just off-duty.’ Yes – his voice is definitely, if _minutely_ , more casual than usual – appreciation of Oswald’s recognition of his professionalism.

‘A whiskey, then, in that case? Just one?’ He glances round the bar and sighs. ‘Probably the only drink we’ll serve tonight.’ He catches the bartender’s eye and gestures.

‘No guests?’ asks Jim, looking round the empty club.

The bartender puts their drinks on the table and leaves without chit-chat. That Mr Cobblepot’s meetings with Detective Gordon are never to be disturbed is an unwritten law with awful consequences. 

‘No party’ Oswald responded flatly, mouth pursed.

Jim settles back a little with his drink looking, Oswald thinks, rather cautiously pleased.

‘And you?’ Oswald asks. ‘No party invitations? No fancy dress?’

Jim shakes his head as he takes a sip from his glass. His eyes shut for a split-second in response to the burn of the very, very good scotch that Oswald keeps only for his visits. When they open again, Oswald quirks an eyebrow.

Jim makes a face - always gives up extra information, no matter how trivial, like he’s having a tooth pulled. He always _gives_ it, though, Oswald’s noticed.

‘I don’t… they annoy me. Barbara loved them. I just stood there like an idiot in whatever costume she’d picked out for me.’

He frowns a little thinking back on it. Oswald feels one corner of his mouth slant upwards in a mindless smile, watching him. In this indulgent mood, he offers a confidence of his own.

‘My bullies tormented me even more than usual at Hallowe’en. And they’d come right to my home, my refuge – and knock at the door all night, harassing my poor mother.’

He can still remember, with an angry, flaming sense of shame, the heart-stopping _fright_ that had seized him when they’d chased him all the way home – their faces hidden by masks. He knew it was them – of course he did – but he had still felt so frightened, so _frightened_ , sobbing by the time he had barrelled through the door, heart hammering in his narrow chest.

He feels his cheeks burn again at the memory. When he looks up, Jim is watching him steadily, carefully.

‘Kids can be cruel.’

No dismissal of the event's importance. Nothing disparaging about his response then, or holding on to it for all these years. No show of _pity_ at all. Oswald lets this response sink in, and finds he likes it.

‘Ms Kean’s costume parties were not to your taste?’

The corners of Jim’s mouth tighten.

‘High society – making small talk with some banker or politician, pretending to understand when they went on about stocks and shares. And dressed like a dope the whole time.’

He frowns.

‘It was always the same. Gallery openings. Dinner parties with her parents. I stood out like a sore thumb – even without the stupid costumes.’ His eyes flicker down to the table top and he adds, quietly, almost to himself, ‘I never liked parties, anyway.’

The feeling of not fitting in was familiar to Oswald – but Jim not fitting in was inconceivable to him. Jim was strong, and handsome, with a well-respected father. He had a military background, and a career, and usually an attractive woman clinging to his arm.

Still, he must have his reasons, and that was enough for Oswald.

He leans across the table towards him, and smiles when he looks up.

‘Jim Gordon. You are _very_ cordially invited – every year – to no Hallowe’en party _whatsoever_ at Oswald’s.’ He holds up his hand with a flourish. ‘Costumes forbidden. Small talk absolutely prohibited. In fact, no other guests permitted but you.’

Jim is aiming for disapproving, with that tilt of his head, but there’s something indulgent and amused behind his eyes - Oswald can see it, adept as he is at knowing just how far to push his luck.

They manage to talk business amicably enough for an hour. Oswald’s interests are not solely chaotic, these days – now he has the club, and an eye to the future, and he’s more than willing to furnish up troublemakers who would be a thorn in his side, as well as GCPD’s. A few easy catches will sweeten Jim’s mood too, a little instant gratification in his impossible quest to cleanse the city. By the time Jim leaves, they're both quietly pleased.

Next year, they can meet here again. Put on masks of civility for their mutual benefit. Or perhaps they take them off for while, really – gangster and detective, hero and villain – and just face each other across the table in an empty club. Say more than they intend, but less than they mean.

**Author's Note:**

> If you got this far, then thank-you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> The title is from a poem by Rumi.
> 
> “Be like the sun for grace and mercy. Be like the night to cover others' faults. Be like running water for generosity. Be like death for rage and anger. Be like the Earth for modesty. Appear as you are. Be as you appear.” 
> 
> I think my favourite thing about this pairing is that they know the best and worst of each other, bring out the best and worst in each other - but still act to save each other's necks when necessary: whether that means showing mercy, or committing murder. They complement each other, weirdly, and there's an honesty between them that's strangely intimate. The quote summed that up for me.
> 
> Happy to chat in the comments :)


End file.
